My Therapist's Husband

"So when you say you hate the idea of being alone," she said, "what do you imagine would happen if you stopped trying to fill your alone time with someone else?"

Dr. Klein sat across from me with her usual detached self, keeping her hands folded neatly on the yellow legal pad that probably had my name written a hundred times already. I don't know why I was even here. Yes, I chose to come because I knew I had issues and I wanted to deal with them in theory, but I felt like half the time I ended up saying things I wasn't sure I meant.

I gave a small laugh. "I'd probably implode."

She smiled, and it came across as the kind of therapist smile that was meant to be encouraging, but felt condescending. "Or maybe you'd find out you don't need someone else there to complete you as a person."

"Sure," I said, "but that sounds boring."

Her pen moved across the page, making a sound I could never quite stop hearing once it started. I watched the movement instead of her face, wondering what single word she was writing about me this time.Deflecting? Guarded? Flippant?Probably all three.

"I think," she said after a pause, "you've learned to get attention before you learned to identify what it is that you actually need."

I shrugged. "Attention's easy though. People either give it to you or they don't."

"And what happens when they do?"

I tilted my head, considering the question. "Then I usually get bored pretty quickly."

She nodded, as if that was what she expected. It probably was. I'd been coming here for six weeks and she already seemed to have me categorized as bright, a little self-destructive, and fundamentally afraid of being ignored, based on the questions she asked.

"And when they don't give you any attention?" she followed up.

"It depends..." I started, having to think of how I would typically react. "I guess I either push until I figure out what will get me the attention, or I still get bored and move on."

The clock ticked softly above her window. I tried not to glance at it too often, but I always did near the end, counting down the last few minutes like I was waiting for the credits to roll at the end of a movie.

Her voice dropped. "Before we stop for today, is there anything you'd like to talk about that we haven't?"

I hesitated, the thought of him skipping through my mind before I even realized I was talking, "Actually... yeah. I met your husband."

Her brows lifted slightly. "You did?"

"Sort of. He was dropping something off last week, right? Like lunch or something?"

"Yes," she said, a faint crease forming between her eyes. "You must have crossed paths. Sorry about that. He was a little earlier than intended."

"He's cute," I said without thinking, and then immediately laughed it off. "Sorry, that was weird to say. I just- I didn't expect someone married to a therapist to look so..." I gestured vaguely. "Creative? He had that vibe about him, like he... I don't know, just like he was creative I guess."

She smiled, but it seemed like it fell short of genuine. "Heisa writer. And thank you, I'll tell him you said that. I'm sure he'll get a kick out of it."

I could sense what felt like tension and wanted to fix it. "I meant it as a compliment. He seemed nice," I followed up, as the thought crossed my mind that I was probably just projecting once again, as she'd call it. The tension was likely all mine and she was just going through the motions like she usually did.

"I'm sure he was," she said lightly, setting her pen down and glancing at the clock. "That's our time for today."

There it was - the signal that whatever truth had been building was about to get postponed another week. I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and she followed me to the door like she always did, maintaining her polite, but distant demeanor.

But as I stepped into the hallway, I caught a flash of movement down the corridor. There was a man in a navy-blue sweater part way down, with his head bent over his phone. It was the same guy I'd seen holding a paper bag that day. He looked up just long enough for our eyes to meet, and I'd recognized him instantly.

Seeing him look at me, I slowed instinctively and smiled. He slipped his phone into his pocket, offering a polite nod, sort of like you would to acknowledge someone more out of courtesy than anything else.

"Hey," I said, stopping near him. "You were here last week, right? With the bag from that sandwich place just down the way?"

"Yeah. Guilty," he said returning the smile.

I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder, causing it to push up against my breast and exaggerating my cleavage. I angled myself toward him and continued. "Bringing lunch again?"

"Something like that," he said. "I have to try and remind my wife to eat when she gets buried in work."

I let out a small laugh, brushing at the air with my hand. "That's sweet. Though honestly, I don't know how you're even surviving in that thing." I tugged lightly at his sweater just above where I imagined the button to his slacks would be. I felt the soft knit between my fingers. "It's like ninety degrees out. I'm melting just walking from the car."

His eyes flicked over me, and even though it was quick, it was still noticeable. He took in my midriff halter top and low-waisted denim shorts before returning to my face. "Guess I'm used to it," he said, half smiling.

"Lucky you," I teased, stepping back with a playful sigh. "If I wore anything more than this, they'd have to peel me off the sidewalk." I ran my hands over my stomach, framing my cute little belly button. At least I thought it was cute, after having received several compliments on it over the years.

He chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind next time I dress for lunch duty, but I don't think anyone wants to see me walking around wearing something like that."

I didn't expect him to come back at me with that, and I couldn't help the laugh that came out. Recovering and grinning at him, I started to take another step backward, toward the exit and the direction I'd been heading before I stopped. "You never know," I teased, making a display of looking him over while catching the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth. "In a place like this," I continued, gesturing to the office of the Student Health Center we were standing in, "you can never be too sure just what the people here might be into."

And with that, I gave him a wink and my sweetest smile before turning away. My stride picked up a little extra bounce, making sure my ponytail was swinging with each step. Halfway down the hall, I brushed my palms over the butt of my shorts in a casual motion, pretending to wipe them clean, though I knew exactly what I was doing.

At the end of the corridor, I slowed and glanced back at him, as I turned the corner. He was still standing there, watching me, until he realized he'd been caught. The moment I looked his way, he straightened abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets and heading toward his wife's office like he suddenly remembered why he was there.

Later that night I kept thinking about the way he looked at me in the hallway. If it weren't for the fact that I'd initiated it, I'd almost say it was a bit creepy. Like he wasn't used to having a twenty-two-year-old girl flirt with him. And when he realized I was, his brain just stopped working, until he realized I was watching him stare at me. He'd straightened so fast it almost made me laugh.

I don't even know why I did any of it. The wink, the smile, that little bounce in my walk... It just happened out of impulsive. I guess that's part of why I was in therapy though. Because I did things before the sensible part of my brain kicks in and says that maybe that's a bad idea. Or maybe I wanted to see if he'd notice. Maybe I wanted to remind myself I could makeanyonenotice.

The thing is, I can't say I particularly like Dr. Klein. I don't exactly hate her either though. Everything with her just always feels calm and measured, in a professional way that makes you wonder if it's real or rehearsed. But there's something about women like her that's hard to trust. It's like they have to try and make sure everything's balanced, everything's under control. It's like they float above the rest of us, perfectly composed while everyone else is busy trying to figure out where we went wrong.

So when I met her husband, part of me wanted to see what kind of man a woman like that gets to keep. And maybe, deep down, I wanted to touch something that belonged to her, just to prove that I could.

I mean it was harmless, right? A small, stupid moment. But the look he gave me... it wasn't nothing. There was a pause in it, a kind of curiosity he failed to try to hide.

I wonder if he told her he saw me. Probably not. Men like that don't tell their wives these things. Some things are better left unspoken. Or maybe, she wasn't keeping him as much as I assumed.

Sitting in Dr. Klein's office the next week, I couldn't help but notice that everything always looked the same. The incessant sunny skies even meant the same soft light through gauzy curtains, joining the faint smell of eucalyptus, and the same muted painting of trees behind her chair. It should've been calming, but today it just made me restless.

She smiled when I came in. "How have you been since last week?"

"Fine," I said, sinking into the couch dismissively. "Busy."

She nodded, waiting. She always waited. It was her superpower, how she used silence like a mirror, making you talk just to fill the void.

"I've been thinking a lot about what you said," I started. "About not needing someone else to feel whole."

"And how does that feel to sit with?"

"Like extra homework," I said with a small laugh. "It feels like the tedious shit they want you to do, and show the work, so I keep meaning to start but never do."

She just gave one of her patronizing smiles. "Sometimes the hardest part is recognizing the difference between needing comfort and needing control."

The words felt... too fitting. I looked away, pretending to study the shelf behind her where a framed wedding photo sat half-turned toward the wall. I wondered if she knew it did that - if she'd turned it herself, or if someone else had. Was it there to simply humanize her? Why should I, her patient dealing with relationship issues, among the cornucopia of problems I've got, have to stare at a picture of her and her husband? And having met him, I was pretty sure, they didn't live in the fairytale that picture made it out to be.

"Do you ever get tired of being the one who listens?" I asked suddenly.

She blinked, a little caught off guard. "Sometimes," she admitted. "But it's part of the work."

"Seems lonely," I said. "All these people coming in, telling you things they can't tell anyone else, and you have to keep it all locked up."

"It can be," she said quietly. "But it also teaches you compassion. Understanding where people's impulses come from helps you not judge them so harshly."

That word,impulses, hit a little too close. I felt my skin prickle and crossed my legs, forcing a smile. "Sounds healthy, I suppose."

She tilted her head slightly, studying me. "You seem distracted today. Anything on your mind?"

"No," I said quickly, then tried to play it off with a shrug. "Just tired."

She didn't press the issue. Just wrote something on her pad, her pen moving in that soft scratch I'd learned to hate. Every time I heard it, I imagined she was diagnosing me in real time:deflecting, evasive, withholding.

When the session ended, she stood as usual to walk me out. I almost asked if her husband was around, but stopped myself just in time. Instead, I gave her a polite smile, thanked her, and stepped into the hallway.

The air felt cooler out there. More honest somehow. I told myself it was just because I could finally breathe again and wondered why the fuck I was even doing this to myself. I felt like I was going backwards after every session. More shit brought to the surface, nothing resolved.

I walked out of the building feeling half caged. Usually, I'd head straight home or to class, but today my feet carried me the other way. Down the paths of walkway, past the student union, to the little sandwich place with the blue awning. The one I'd seen her husband bringing her lunch from, paper bag in hand.

It wasn't a plan, exactly. More like a personal transgression. An invasion, somehow, into her personal life, wearing the mask of coincidentally just going there for lunch.

The bell over the door jingled as I stepped inside. The air smelled of fresh bread and grilled onions. I ordered a turkey club and took a corner seat, I sat with my back to the wall, where I could watch people come and go. I liked people watching. There was something interesting about the way people carried themselves when they were just going about their lives, unintentionally providing entertainment to those who cared to take the time.

Ten minutes later, the door opened and there he was. Thankfully he wasn't wearing a sweater this time, but his hair was a little messy, and he looked distracted. He smiled at the girl behind the counter. The only thing that went through my head was comparing him to his wife, and wondering if he'd practiced that smile over the years, or if it just came naturally. She laughed at something he said, and for the briefest second, I hated her a little.

He might've just been being nice. I had no way of knowing from across the tables of people and late lunch chatter. But from where I sat, it looked like flirting, and that small, unwarranted jealousy burned hotter than I expected, completely catching me off guard.

He took his cup, walked to the drink station, and started filling it. When he turned, scanning the room, his eyes landed on me, where I was already smiling at him.

For a second, he looked startled, then amused. He lifted his brows, gesturing faintly, in a silent question:May I?

I tilted my head, still smiling, the barest nod giving him permission.

Watching him cross the room, I felt a strange thrill that came across in a mixture of victory and guilt. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't want whatever this was starting to feel like.

But as he reached my table, and that almost inappropriate grin returned, all I could think was how much I liked being the reason for it. He set his drink down before sitting.

"Twice in as many weeks. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were following me."

I took a slow sip of my own drink, staring at him and dragging out the moment. "Please. I was here first. And then Dr. Klein's office too. Pretty sureyou'rethe one stalking me."

He chuckled, easing into the chair across from me. "Fair enough. Guess we'll call it a mutual coincidence."

"Seems like a lot of coincidences lately," I said. "You live around here?"

"Not far, but no, that's not why I'm here. This is my go-to when I drop something off at Marissa's off- er... Sorry," he said with a tilt of his head and backed up. "I mean at my wife's, Dr. Klein's, office.

Of course it was. Hearing him saying her first name, then backtracking tomy wifesent a quick, strange flutter through me, like being reminded of a rule I was already starting to break.

"Good choice," I said lightly, gesturing to the sandwich shop. "I've gotta say, it's surprisingly my first time here, but the turkey club's solid. Though you strike me as more of a soup-and-book guy."

He laughed politely. "That obvious?"

"Isn't that what writers always are," I said, tilting my head. "You've got the look."

He leaned back slightly, studying me with a tightening of his lips. "Interesting."

"What is?" I asked, tearing a piece from my sandwich.

"That picture you painted," he said. "I hate to disappoint you, but you've clearly watched too many movies. I'm not the type who dreams about some quiet cabin in the woods."

"Oh, no?" I asked, studying him back, curious of the type he was, then.

He shook his head. "Nope. I like the noise. The people. The city. I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I ever lost my creature comforts around here."

I smirked. "So, you're saying you're not the brooding writer type I had in mind?"

"Afraid not," he answered, with warm and amused eyes. "And for the record, no, I'm not a soup guy either. I generally like a sandwich from here. Soup is reserved for the cold days we're fortunate to rarely experience, or when in the mountains on a ski trip, and you need something to warm you from the inside."

"Hmm," I murmured, leaning forward just a bit. "Good to know. I'll keep my daydreams more realistic next time."

He raised an eyebrow, having piqued his interest. "So, you're admitting you've been daydreaming about me now?"

I flashed him a smile, letting my eyes linger on his. "Don't flatter yourself. You just have one of those faces that sneaks into people's thoughts, whether they want it to or not."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That's a precarious thing to say to a guy. It can leave a man wondering just when exactly his face comes creeping into your thoughts."

"It's only dangerous if you repeat it in poor company," I said, with an unmistakable undertone.

He watched me for a second longer, his grin never leaving his face. "You're something else, you know that?"

I grinned back, tossing the last bit of crust onto my plate. "Just don't tell your wife," I replied with a wink.

"Wouldn't dream of it." And for a moment it seemed like neither of us knew what to say after that.

I leaned back, pretending to focus on my now nearly empty plate. "So, you really are a writer?"

"I am," he said. "Mostly essays these days, some self-improvement."

"Maybe I'll get to read something someday."

"Maybe you will."

I toyed with my straw, glancing up at him. "So self-improvement, huh? Is that all therapy stuff?" I paused, letting a hint of irony color my tone. "That how you metMarissa?"

He chuckled, shaking his head at the idea. "No, nothing like that. I used to do a lot of public speaking, mostly on leadership. Corporate workshops, conferences, that kind of thing, and met her after one, while talking with some of the attendees."

"Sounds intense," I said.

"It was," he admitted. "But I was lucky. Built up enough of an audience that my books keep me comfortable and I don't have to travel much anymore. Now I just do the occasional local speaking engagement, and write when I feel like it. I've been successful enough to stay comfortable."

"Comfortable," I repeated softly, smiling. "You make it sound like a luxury."

He looked at me for a moment, a thoughtful expressing in his eyes. "Well, I think for most people it is. I don't have that need to be the richest guy I know, or keep trying to earn enough to join the most expensive country club. Instead, I enjoy life, and the leisure my previous hard work now provides.Dr. Klein, on the other hand, is much more work motivated than I am."

He paused there, kind of looking off for a moment, and I watched his fingers trace the rim of his cup. I waited curiously, because I never got to hear anyone talkaboutDr. Klein. She was the one who always asked the questions, always the calm force in the room. Seeing her from the outside felt like opening a door I wasn't supposed to know existed.

"See, it's not the money she's chasing," he said finally, almost to himself. "It's more like... she believes people should always be trying for something. Growing, improving. If you're not pushing yourself, you're wasting your potential. That kind of thing."

I smiled faintly. "I haven't heard her say that before, but I've heard something like it in a session. It's like she's trying to make me feel guilty for wanting a nap instead of a new goal."